


Blitzed Out

by Chrononautical



Series: A Complicated and Ineffable History [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Porn, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), No Refractory Period, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), The Blitz, foot washing, gratuitous shakespeare, gratuitous use of a car as a metaphor, slightly wyrd sex, what we talk about when we talk about making love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21551512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: Crowley gives Aziraphale a lift home.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A Complicated and Ineffable History [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1563790
Comments: 34
Kudos: 226





	Blitzed Out

“Lift home?”

Crowley said it so casually, sauntering off toward the Bentley, as though nothing remotely unusual was happening. As though he did not just lift books of prophecy from the hand of a dead Nazi spy, raising them to safety. There was no reason for a demon to do such a thing. Preventing Aziraphale’s inconvenient discorporation could be part of their arrangement—although somewhat above and beyond the usual terms—but why save the books? Crowley didn’t care about books. Crowley didn’t even read. The only reason he had to take such a step was Aziraphale’s happiness. Crowley cared about that. 

And he did look so very dashing in a broad brimmed hat. 

Unlike Aziraphale, who’d only been playing an intelligencer, Crowley got the whole spy ring. Crowley didn’t play games. Another bomb dropped in the darkness, quite close to the Bentley, and dawn broke over Marblehead.1 It had been a tale of espionage and daring-do after all, but Aziraphale wasn’t the clever hero. Looking at Crowley in the driver’s seat, Aziraphale knew his role at last. Entirely without meaning to, he realized he was Making an Effort.

“You’re quiet,” the demon observed, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“Yes.” Everything else felt too big to say until the car jerked to a stop in front of the bookshop. “Will you come in?” 

Crowley turned to look at him then, a small smile flitting across his lips. “Do you actually want me to?” 

“Oh, very much so!” 

The smile fell away. “Probably better not, angel. I got places to be.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale churned in disappointment, but he tried not to make a show of it. He wasn’t going to start pouting just because something new was happening in his trousers.

“Eh. Could spare a few minutes, I suppose.” The engine of the car stopped purring.

“Excellent!” 

Aziraphale didn’t turn on his shop lights, of course. He knew his way, and Crowley could see in the dark. Both left their coats and hats on the stand beside the door in silence, and proceded through the shop in the same way. Once they were in an interior room with no windows, Aziraphale lit his kerosene lamp and a few candles while Crowley draped himself across the sofa like arm rests were always meant for knees. 

“My dear, I should like to wash your feet.” It wasn’t the first thing that came to mind, but Aziraphale was still hoping that with a little time, good sense would make those rather frightening first thoughts go away. 

Crowly laughed. “Wash my feet? No one’s offered to do that for eighteen hundred years. Remember, it went out of style when we all stopped wearing sandals everywhere.” 

“Will you let me?” 

The demon didn’t so much roll his eyes as his whole entire head. “Knock yourself out, angel.” But that was a blatant diversion attempt. Aziraphale could feel the sudden expenditure of occult energy when it was happening in his own bookshop. 

Nevertheless, he got out a basin, a soft cloth, a clean towel, and a pitcher of water. Crowley didn’t sit up straight when Aziraphale knelt before the armchair, but he did kick off one shoe to wiggle his toes in the angel’s face. Like his eyes, Crowley’s feet gave evidence of his demonic nature. Delicate black scales covered his heel, the pad of his foot, and the tips of his toes. Aziraphale took hold of his ankle gently, guiding the foot down into the water. 

“All present and unburnt,” the demon said. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.” 

Aziraphale ran his cloth around Crowley’s heel and up the arch of his foot where scales gave way to skin. “Was it subtle when you repaired your corporeal body just now?” 

Crowley didn’t admit to anything, but he did take off his left shoe with his hands—even untying the laces—as Aziraphale dried his right foot with the fluffy towel. In something very like an apology, he dropped it into the water without making the angel ask. 

Taking time and care, Aziraphale washed each individual scale, running his cloth around Crowley’s curling toes, tracing up along the heel, soothing the sensitive arch. When he finished, he lifted Crowley’s foot out of the water, drying it with the towel. Then he pressed a soft kiss to the bone of the demon’s ankle, setting the foot down upon the floor. He took his time about tidying up. After he put away the basin and the cloths, he turned to look back at Crowley. Crowley was exactly where Aziraphale placed him, completely immobile. 

“You were very brave tonight.” 

“Liked that, did you?” Recalling himself, Crowley slouched a bit more in his chair, slinging a leg over the armrest once again. 

“Indeed! You were quite the hero, Crowley, and I think you know it. So witty, too! Lord Peter Wimsey couldn’t have come to my rescue with more style.” 

“ _Who?_ ” 

“I think my favorite bit was when you tipped your hat to that terrible Captain Montgomery! Oh, she was a rotten one, Crowley. Pretending to be my friend for weeks, paying lip service to Queen and Country, when all the time she was really planning to kill me. Can you even imagine?” 

“Sorry, have you been rescued by a lord?” 

“No, you old silly, I was rescued by you. And the thing is—the really important thing is—you didn’t just save me, Crowley.” 

“Only, I’m quite up on politics these days, with the war and everything. There is no Whimsy in the House of Lords. What kind of a name is whimsy? I think someone’s having you on.” 

“You saved my books.” 

Rolling to his feet, Crowley shrugged lazily. “Look angel, it was nothing. I’m fine. You’ve seen my burn-free scales for yourself. Some Nazis are dead, and all is right with the world. I’ll just head out now, shall I?” 

“I would very much like to kiss you.” 

Crowley stopped moving. “Alright.” 

“You don’t mind?” 

Crowley shook his head minutely, but Aziraphale got the distinct impression that behind dark glasses, serpentine eyes remained fixed upon his own. Slowly, he closed the distance between them. The first taste of Crowley’s lips wasn’t what he expected. No orchestra swelled, no chorus sang, only a gentle pressure came from two mouths pressing together. Then a hand twisted in Aziraphale’s hair, tugging his head back, forcing his mouth open to be ravished thoroughly by a conquering hero. His body even dipped backward slightly, supported by a strong arm on the curve of his spine. An orchestra might have played at that particular moment. Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t have noticed it.

“Well.” Crowley stepped backward a pace, releasing the angel. “There you have it.” 

“Yes. Yes, quite. I just—I have to say again how incredible you were earlier. I can’t believe you walked over consecrated ground for me.”

Crowley lifted a hand as if to tip his hat, apparently forgetting that it was still on a stand by the door. Instead, he overcompensated for the gesture by running his fingers through already tousled hair. “Like to see your _Lord Peter_ do that.”2

“I’d like you to make love to me.” As soon as the words were out, Aziraphale knew they were the wrong ones. Love was a virtue. Crowley always hated having virtues ascribed to him. Fortunately, he didn’t go all still again. He didn’t chafe or snarl the way he would have if Aziraphale asked him to be nice, either.

After a false start and a little stammering, he said, “Can do.” Crowley’s voice shifted down into a low rumble. Swaggering forward, he halved the distance between them once more. “Oh, that I can do, angel. If you so desire.”

Aziraphale tried not to tremble.

Instead of grabbing him up in another heroic kiss, however, the demon only said, “‘Age cannot wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety.’ Shakespeare stole that one from me, you know, and I wasn’t talking about Richard Burbage. I certainly wasn’t talking about _Cleopatra_. A garden variety daisy, pretty enough in her own way, could not compare to you, my love. You are no simple flower, but an orchard in full bloom. Grown wise with experience no summer daisy could hope to measure. No apple blossom was ever as fair as thy cheek, nor was any fruit so sweet as the nectar of thy lips.” 

Crowley’s hand brushed quite unexpectedly against Aziraphale’s face. It was not the sudden embrace of a daring spy, but the gentle touch of a lover. Fingers trailed across his cheek. A thumb slid along his jaw. Nerve endings came alive to bask in the warmth of a cupping palm. The angel wondered at that touch. To be precise, he wondered exactly how long Crowley had been three words of encouragement away from a confession of ardor. Then he very pointedly did not wonder why he’d never noticed before. There was still a veritable Host of reasons why embracing a demon was a bad idea. 

“Oh, but if you were Cleopatra, angel, I would be an asp. I would be anything in this world to be held unto your heart, to press my mouth against your skin. Kiss me again. Kiss me once more. I vow, you will taste no poison on my lips.” 

Emphatically, Aziraphale did so at once. The alternative was to let Crowley keep talking as he voiced all manner of things that should never be said. It was impossible. It was all so impossible: that Crowley should love an angel, that Aziraphale would feel the same, that they might actually get away with this. It would never be allowed, of course, but when Crowley sucked on Aziraphale’s tongue in that lewd, hungry way, nothing else seemed to matter. 

“Is this what you want?” The words brushed whisper hot against the angel’s lips. 

“Hmm?” Aziraphale blinked open his eyes to see his own reflection in Crowley’s dark glasses. 

A trail of kisses, light and chaste, traced the line of the angel’s jaw. “Do you want this?” 

“Oh, yes. It’s very nice.” 

Sharp teeth scraped against his neck. Perhaps the intention was a reprimand, but it felt—rather better than nice. A great deal better, in all honestly.

“You could, ah. Perhaps you might do that again? If it’s not to much trouble.” 

The mouth against Aziraphale’s neck stretched into a smile. Then Crowley sucked a slow, nibbling sort of kiss in just that same place, making him squirm in an undignified manner. The Effort in his trousers began to ache and twitch in Crowley’s direction. “Oh, now really!” 

“Too much?” Abruptly, there were several inches between Crowley’s mouth and Aziraphale’s skin. This was not an improvement. 

“No, no, carry on.” Aziraphale tried to sound glib, but he wondered rather distantly if there could ever possibly be a polite way to broach the topic of trousers. 

Crowley stepped back once more, and several inches became almost a foot. It was a vast, impassable divide. The distance between them always was. Always would be.

“Thing is, angel, I’m not precisely sure what you mean by making love. Can I get a little tip toward which century’s norms we’re working with, at least? It’s a little hard to tell sometimes. I mean, I’m standing on a carpet that you’ve had since 1563 and you just washed my feet like we were still in Galilee.” 

“This carpet’s Persian! Persian Carpets don’t go out of fashion.”

“Yes. By all means, do let’s discuss interior decorating.” Crowley’s face tightened up unhappily. “Angel, I don’t want to get this wrong. Are we talking _De amore_? Elizabethan? Romantic? In what _sense_ do you mean that you want me to make love?” 

Aziraphale’s mind drifted back dreamily to beautiful young maidens in long dresses on garden swings. Poets making love to their muses for days, laughing bards with their lutes, and those lovely silk tights that were so comfortable and stylish. 

“Because I can, you know.” Crowley swallowed visibly. “Any way you like. I’m not bothered.” 

“I think I mean the modern sense, dear.” The demon’s mouth was ever so slightly red. Whether it was an effect of the friction or Crowley simply wanted his attention there, Aziraphale felt quite justified in fixing his gaze. “I’d like to copulate.” 

“Oh.” That lovely red mouth opened with the word, but didn’t shut behind it. 

“Sex, that is. If you have any interest. I know it might seem like a bit of trouble at first blush, but it could be easier than you think. My body went ahead quite naturally. You never know, I suppose, with bodies. It aches a bit, and it keeps twitching when we kiss, but it’s rather enjoyable in its own way.” 

“Yeah. No. I know. I, ah, eh.” Crowley shook his head. “You just—you _just_ —tonight?” 

“You saved my books.” 

All at once, they were kissing again. Crowley licked his way into Aziraphale’s mouth as he might a particularly delectable cream puff. The demon was always wastefully interested in sweet creams to the neglect of plain pastries. Aziraphale marveled at the sensation of being the cream, being intrinsically desirable instead of earning affection through good work. Moments later when a demonic thigh interposed itself between Aziraphale’s knees, all thought abandoned him. Each gentle nudge sent sparks through Aziraphale’s entire corporeal form, and he melted into Crowley’s arms like butter in the sun. Because he really was a tremendously kind person, Crowley returned to Aziraphale’s neck for another one of those lovely, sucking kisses. 

Aziraphale knew he really ought to say something charming or romantic while his mouth was free, but the capacity for speech escaped him. Even his knees buckled, seemingly unable to support his weight. After a time, the pair broke apart, with great force of effort from Crowley. Aziraphale was extremely reluctant to allow the separation.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Crowley removed his dark glasses. Aziraphale couldn’t be expected to resist that. Falling forward, he kissed him again. And again. And again. Finally, he realized that Crowley was trying to say something, and gave him the space to do so.3

“Here on the sofa? Did you want something in particular for your first time? ‘M up for anything. Obviously.” 

As it happened, Aziraphale did want something very particular, though he hadn’t been aware of desiring anything specific until the question was posed. “I should like us both to be naked.” 

“I think we can manage that.” Crowley’s grin was a wicked thing—full of dark promise and temptation to sin.

“And I should like you to penetrate me. Perhaps while I’m on my back, looking up at you, so that your body covers mine, while you thrust with all the force you can muster.” 

“Ngk,” Crowley said, intelligently. His mouth opened a shade more, in an invitation to yet another kiss.4

Eventually, Aziraphale conceded that talking couldn’t be entirely avoided. Finishing on a small, chaste kiss, he addressed the matter directly. 

“I think you’re right that we probably ought to move to a bed, or at least make the sofa a bit bigger. Only, the bed in the flat above the shop is in a room full of windows. I keep it for appearances, after all, but I think the appearance of lamplight would be jolly helpful for those German bombers, if any are running a bit behind the pack. Naturally, one has blackout curtains. The A.R.P. warden for this neighborhood is a terrific busybody. Doesn’t understand the joy of a little late-night reading a jot, that man. Not that it isn’t important for us all to do our bit. Even so, I’d really prefer—that is to say—such a private matter, well. Do you mind, love?” 

The sound Crowley made was beyond inhuman. Yet it was not, strictly speaking, a hiss, a growl, or anything demonically threatening. In fact, it reminded Aziraphale strangely of the way the Bentley’s engine turned over when starting on a winter morning. 

“Er—”

“ _Anything_.” Crowley pressed a hard kiss to Aziraphale’s mouth. When the kiss ended, Aziraphale saw that his bed was just behind Crowley. Miraculously, all the rest of the furniture in the cluttered bookshop back room fit in around it. This despite the fact that the bed seemed slightly larger, significantly less dusty, and was now covered in silk sheets along with the darling quilt his neighbor Bette gifted him back in 1782 when he first opened the shop. A few more kerosene lamps dotted the available surfaces as well, lighting the room as brightly as the electricity would have, only with the warm glow of flame. 

Aziraphale took Crowley by his lapels, and began unbuttoning everything within reach. There was something delightfully tender about the procedure, and Aziraphale was grateful that the demon had not vanished any clothing as part of his miracle. Loosing Crowley’s necktie unknotted those bonds which must always hold them separate. Aziraphale missed the art of a well tied cravat, the soft silk of a presentable ascot. Blood red and coarse, the cloth that slipped out from under Crowley’s collar was too much like a noose. Dropping it away, the angel went to work on the slate gray shirt. Unfastening one button at a time, he slowly sought out the revelation of perfect skin beneath.

Perhaps heroes were always as innately lovable as the characters who existed to meet that love with their own. Perhaps the metaphor had already gone too far. Aziraphale wanted every part of his friend, not just the heroism. When Crowley, in the course of his own unbuttoning spree, freed Aziraphale’s cock and brushed a hand against it, the angel gained a new understanding of ecstasy.

All encompassing sensation ripped pleasure from the very core of the angel’s existence. Far beyond mere corporeal enjoyment, Aziraphale’s entire being contracted with spasms of love and delight. His body, the cause of this great celebration, could not contain itself. 

Crowley licked his fingers. His tongue laved over his own palm, curling around his elegant fingers, lapping up every drop of fluid with a relish the demon rarely showed for food. Giddy thoughts about cream once again plagued Aziraphale, but he had no mind to attend them. 

“Goodness.” 

“Give it a minute and we can go again. It gets better.” Crowley dropped a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek stroked a slick finger along the trembling length of the angel’s phallus. “If you still want—” 

“I want.” Oh, how Aziraphale wanted! Crowley pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his legs, one clever hand working between them, gripping and sliding along Aziraphale’s cock like a steering wheel. That same competent caress he always gave the Bentley belonged to the angel now. Aziraphale himself was rather useless, only kissing Crowley desperately, carding his fingers through that lovely hair, and groaning occasionally in appreciation. 

Driving him ever higher and faster, Crowley said, “Now, angel. Love of my life. Now. For me.” And the world fell apart. 

Blinking as he came back to reality, Aziraphale noticed that Crowley was stealing away his left sock. Cozy wool tickled along the bottom of his foot. It had been the very last piece of clothing remaining between them. Now, there was nothing in the way. Surely that demanded a kiss. As always, Crowley was ever so obliging, pressing Aziraphale down into the mattress with confident, heroic strength. 

When they parted, Crowley’s eyes fairly glowed in the lamplight. Glancing down at Aziraphale’s eager phallus, he smiled. As though there was something amusing about the way it kept twitching and straining to be close to him. Abruptly, the angel realized it might, in fact, be an issue.

“Should I change the configuration, my dear? This wasn’t really a conscious effort on my part. It just sort of—well, when you saved my books, I felt so very strongly—” 

“Not for the world.” Crowley’s tongue was awfully flexible. Aziraphale wondered if that was one of his serpentine traits, or if skillful tongues always felt particularly dexterous in one’s mouth. 

“Only,” Aziraphale continued, as if he had not been interrupted, “I do still very much want you to penetrate me, dearest, and that might be easiest if I made a different sort of Effort.” 

Nimble fingers trailed, tapped, and curled along Aziraphale’s shaft. It didn’t tickle at all. In fact, Aziraphale’s new phallus trembled and stiffened up even more in response. “This came naturally?” Crowley asked. “It feels right? Not too sensitive or anything after coming for me twice?” 

“Well, nothing is really natural for us.” Aziraphale frowned. “You know that. And I’m not sure what you mean by too sensitive. It feels rather terrific when you—” 

Crowley’s hand wrapped around the little sack at the base of his phallus and Aziraphale’s hips lurched up off the bed. He almost messed himself again. Then, wondering why he would ever forgo the pleasure, he did so. Crowley laughed. He had such a friendly chuckle. 

“You _like_ this,” the demon said. “I’ll manage.”5

“Yours is bigger,” Aziraphale noted in a bit of a daze. “Should I make mine bigger?” 

Crowley kissed him again with a little hum. “Nah. At the moment, I’m quite a bit bigger than the human norm. ‘Course I gave myself a big one. You want to get fucked; I’m going to make sure you feel it.” One of Crowley’s fingers slipped inside of Aziraphale. “Don’t you go changing, though. This is a gift. It came naturally, just for me, it’s perfect. You’re perfect, exactly as you are, angel. I’m going to take care of you.” 

The words should have been sexual. Clearly, Crowley used the expletive in an attempt to make them so. Aziraphale wanted them to be sexual, pertaining only to the whirlwind moment they were in, with bombs falling over London and spies behind every door. Yet, somehow, they weren’t. 

“I’m going to take care of you.” 

A vow.

How long ago had it been made? 

The Revolution?6

Before that.

The Renaissance?

Almost certainly before that.

For how many centuries had Crowley played guardian to Aziraphale’s happiness by indulging his little whims, feeding his appetites, and entertaining his opinions? 

“We should get on with it,” Aziraphale said, suddenly very sure that they should stop at once.

Crowley’s mouth was so incredibly soft. Aziraphale didn’t understand how such an apparently thin mouth could be so terribly pliant against his own. 

“No need to rush. We have all the time in the world. Need to get you loosened up. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

“You could never hurt me.” Perhaps it should have been an occasion for joy, but the fact suddenly horrified Aziraphale. What if, someday, Crowley needed to hurt him? He wouldn’t be able to. He was incapable. At a loss, the angel loosened the offending ring of muscle. 

Crowley’s eyes went comically wide. As though Aziraphale’s capacity to control his own body was a surprising thing. Then, he grinned. “That’s one way to do it. Next time, you should let me, though. I _like_ it. Could spend hours opening you up, sucking you off, getting you hot.” 

Next time.

“Please.” Aziraphale choked on the word. He couldn’t possibly say anything else. 

“Oh, G—” Crowley choked on the word. His demonic mouth wasn’t capable of saying it. “Fuck. You really want me, angel?”

“More than anything.” Because this was deeply, terribly, unfairly true, it wrenched his heart to say aloud. 

The smile Crowley gave him then was beatific. It did not absolve Aziraphale. Nothing could. But the press of Crowley into his body, the wiry strength in his demonic form, and the irresistible stroke of physical flesh proved distracting enough. At once, there was only room for Crowley. Crowley’s kindness. Crowley’s thoughtfulness. Crowley’s caring. Stroke after stroke after stroke drove Aziraphale into rapture. 

And Crowley continued, unrelenting, giving Aziraphale everything he wanted. 

Again, Aziraphale felt the pressure building. Apparently able to sense it as well, Crowley smiled. Brought his lips down to press a kiss against Aziraphale’s panting mouth even as his hips continued their inexorable thrust into the angel’s body. 

“Beautiful. Beautiful. Let me have it. You’re incredible, love. Incredible. Once more. Give it up for me. Once more.” 

Aziraphale did. 

Crowley didn’t stop, but he did slow his thrusting a bit while Aziraphale spurted, riding him through the rhapsodies. Soon enough, the demon resumed pushing toward new heights. Aziraphale was going to put a stop to things. He had to. This was unfair to Crowley. It was unfair to everyone. Yet how could he resist? With each press, he thought to allow just one more. Just one more stroke. Just one more kiss. Just one more touch of Crowley’s sweat slick skin, and then he would stop. But he didn’t. Everything Crowley did was overwhelmingly pleasurable. 

And his eyes were so sincere. His face so brightly flushed with exertion. “How I love thee, angel. Tell me, tell me what you want. More words? You like words. I can give you words. Anything, angel. Anything for you. Always. My love. My angel. Mine at last.”

“Please—I can’t—I need.” 

“Yes,” Crowley hissed, pounding into Aziraphale with force to rival any German bomb. He knew. He knew exactly what Aziraphale needed. Somehow, he always knew. He was always there: directly above, circling protectively, and deep, deep within. 

“I need—” 

“Say it for me. Love. One more time. C’mon angel. Almost there. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.” 

So Aziraphale told him. He said “harder” and Crowley gave him all the force of a raging inferno inside the heart of a blazing star. He said “faster” and Crowley pistoned like a race car screaming around the track, leaving the very idea of competition well and truly in the dust. He said “more” and Crowley struck true, over, and over, and over again, an archer who could not miss his ever fixed mark. Finally, through the mindless rush of his own ecstasy, he said “love.” 

Time stops. Literally. Aziraphale can see the flickering candle flames freeze. Crowley’s face is a portrait drawn between agony and revelation. The moment stretches into eternity, then snaps back as Crowley shoots deep into Aziraphale’s body before collapsing atop him. 

Aziraphale has seen the face of God. It would be blasphemous to say it—it is blasphemous to even think it—but this was a greater pleasure. His love for Crowley is a vast and terrible floodwater from which there can be no escape. Worse, Aziraphale will not drown in it alone. Aziraphale might not drown in it at all.

“Wanna again?” Crowley slurred against Aziraphale’s chest. 

“What?” 

Softly, Crowley pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s cooling skin before lifting his head. His eyes were amber in the candlelight. “Art thou yet sated, my love? For thine pleasure is my own and I would woo thee long past the break of dawn if such be thy desire.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Aziraphale said, then wondered if it was terribly rude to discuss the matter in the same terms one would use for a second helping of desert. 

Fortunately, Crowley was not offended. Flopping down onto the bed beside Aziraphale, the demon waved a lazy hand to disperse the wet mess of their activity. “Brilliant. I’m knackered. Want me to shove off back to mine?” 

“Ah, well. That is to say. Do you—is that your preference?” 

In six thousand years, Aziraphale had never seen such a grin on Crowley’s face. It was joyful. Simple, uncomplicated joy suffused his every aspect. But for his eyes, he might have been an angel at the dawn of the world when all was perfect, unsullied, and new. 

“I could be persuaded to stay,” he said loftily. “Humans sleep after. Sometimes. Because of the chemicals.7 I know you don’t—”

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said, because it did. He could think of nothing sweeter than two lovers curled safely in the arms of affection. Safely being the key term, of course. Safety being so impossible for an angel and a demon. 

Crowley tucked his head against the angel’s chest, wrapping bodily around him in a way that would probably not have been possible for a human with the normal skeletal configuration. “I mean it, you know,” he said quietly. “I didn’t say it just to tempt you or to get you into bed. ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I—’” 

Between one word and the next, Crowley drifted off to sleep.8

“Buck up, Hamlet,” Aziraphale whispered to himself, but he’d never related more to the melancholy Dane. There had never been a chance of that affair ending well for Ophelia. 

Crowley would be killed. Dashing hero or not, Crowley would be killed. Who could know what the demons would do to him for consorting with the enemy? His side did not, it had been said, send rude notes. Even so, there was a chance that Hell might not put him to death for it. If they didn’t, Heaven would. 

Aziraphale would be reassigned, likely given some penance away from Earth, and Crowley would be killed. Hard luck for an angel given to the pleasures of a physical form. Humans would never appreciate or take care of his books properly, and he’d certainly never have a chance to eat food again. It would all be dreadfully inconvenient for him, and much, much worse for Crowley.

Crowley would be killed. Although Aziraphale liked to think Heaven was a place of forgiveness, redemption, and kindness, there was still plenty of righteous fury and divine judgment to go around. Especially when it came to demons who dared defile angels. Which Crowley hadn’t. There could be nothing wrong with two beings in love celebrating that love; except, of course, if one of them was a demon. According to the party line, demons were incapable of all virtues, especially love. Heaven would treat what just happened as demonic lust, and get to smiting accordingly. 

At which point, Crowley would be killed. 

Dead. 

Gone. 

Forever. 

After scarcely three minutes9 alone with his thoughts, Aziraphale had to deal with a demon waking up and nuzzling his chest. It was all far too much. 

“We cannot ever do anything like this again,” he said, ripping the bandage off. This resulted in terrible pain, of course, but Aziraphale could stand it. He had to. For Crowley. Even if the words punched through his own chest, blinding him with unrelenting heartache. 

When his vision cleared, he saw that it was only the absence of Crowley’s pillowed head. The demon looked at him with soft, sleep riddled eyes. “Alright.” 

“I mean it, Crowley. Doing this was a terrible mistake. We aren’t—I won’t let it happen again.” 

Crowley sat up. “I understand.” 

“Does it even occur to you that we might be killed?”

“Is that only just now occurring to you?” Snapping his fingers, Crowley sent the bed back upstairs. Both of them were fully clothed, Aziraphale—still seated in the same position with his legs up—found himself reclining on the sofa. Crowley was standing next to the door. He adjusted his sunglasses. “What do you think I want that holy water for?” 

“I’m not giving you holy water!” Aziraphale’s voice came out at a pitch rather embarrassingly like a shriek. It wasn’t that, of course, because angels did not shriek. But a passerby unaware of his ethereal nature might be forgiven for some small confusion about the matter. Here Aziraphale was, expressing his justifiable concerns regarding Crowley’s longevity, and the demon dared to ask for a suicide pill. Again!

Crowley held up both his hands to show empty palms. “Alright. I wasn’t asking.” 

“Good.” Aziraphale stood up, mustering his dignity. 

Crowley seemed to curl inward slightly, adjusting his sunglasses again. “Sorry.” 

The word was so quick and quiet, Aziraphale was certain he misheard it. Demons did not apologize. Not seriously. “What?” 

Crowley shrugged, facing the bookshelf to his left. “Knew you’d regret this. Took advantage. Entirely my fault. Demon.”

“Well.” Aziraphale sighed. “That isn’t true. It was a mistake, but it was one we made together.” 

At least that made Crowley look at him, but the demon frowned hard. “And the Arrangement?” 

“Crowley?” 

“Are you going to ignore me for the next three centuries because of this, angel?” 

“I should hope not! Oh dear. Can’t we just go back to the way things have always been? Friendly Adversaries? Surely that needn’t change.” 

Releasing a shaky breath, Crowley relaxed. “Yeah. Fine. Good.” 

“Good! Oh, goodness me. You had me worried for a moment there. Not that three centuries is so very long in the grand scheme of things, but the years when we run into each other are always so much more interesting than the ones when we don’t.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley said again. This time, he even smiled a bit. All at once, that little smile grew into a bright, devastating expression that lanced through Aziraphale’s heart. “Kiss goodbye?” 

“Best not.” 

“Nah.” The smile vanished.

And so the demon left the bookshop.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Well, metaphorically. Marblehead, Massachusetts was 3,255 miles from London and dawn would break there in roughly eleven hours. ^
> 
> 2\. While humans can cross consecrated ground very easily, fictional characters cannot. So in a way, Crowley was quite right to feel superior, even if he was rather missing the point.^
> 
> 3\. He might have realized a good deal sooner if Crowley did not get so very enthusiastic with his tongue during each and every kiss. ^
> 
> 4\. In reality, the demon was gawping like a salmon which, leaping up a waterfall, realized it was diving into a rock instead of a pool, but Aziraphale was experiencing sexual attraction for the first time and didn’t notice. ^
> 
> 5\. In fact, the demon was thrilled that Aziraphale didn’t seem to realize a cock should be overly sensitive and slightly exhausted after an orgasm. Productive, quantifiable evidence appealed to his analytical nature, and he looked forward to seeing just how much pleasure that angelic endurance might produce with the right incentive. For some reason, it made him think about the Bentley and how other drivers always seemed to need to buy petrol for their cars. ^
> 
> 6\. Meaning the French Revolution, though they’d been through more than a few together: French, American, Industrial, you name it. ^
> 
> 7\. In fact, Crowley and Aziraphale both had corporeal bodies which flooded with the usual mix of serotonin, norepinephrine, vasopressin, and oxytocin. Crowley was reveling in the effects, just as he would with those of a nice Cheval Blanc Bordeaux. Unfortunately, for once Aziraphale’s mind was too distracted to enjoy his body in the same manner. ^
> 
> 8\. The timing was, perhaps, slightly miraculous.^
> 
> 9\. Fifteen hours. Crowley was extremely comfortable.^


End file.
